


A Tree Grows in Kansas

by Eflauta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean said YES, Dean!Michael, Michael!Dean, angel!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eflauta/pseuds/Eflauta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Angels said he was the perfect vessel, but they never told him just what that meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tree Grows in Kansas

The air was heavy with unfallen moisture as thunder roiled through the sky. There was a storm just waiting to break, ready at a moment's notice, whatever that notice might be, but it seemed as though it would never come. Time stretched, and bent around a single location, bringing infinity into a second, stretching that moment through eternity, until all of time and none at all was present in that space.

And that's where Dean stood. He stood there beneath the shifting clouds as the flat Kansas plain stretched out around him, where all of his life seemed to come to a pause and yet could stretch on forever, where the whole of the Universe existed at once, and yet threatened to dissolve into void. Where he stood as he was, a stubborn, young human, and yet held the potential to be infinitely more.

An oak tree rose from the earth there, strong and tall, as though defying the flatlands around it. Rumor had it that it'd sprung from the earth roughly 30 years ago, but it looked over a century old. It's branches spread out far and wide, and it's trunk rose up to the heavens. Broad deep green leaves hung all throughout it, and if the sun had shone there that day, the ground wouldn't have known it.

A step forward, then another, and onto the roots that traveled out from the tree. His head swam with the information that he'd gathered, the pieces falling into place as he moved toward the center. They'd said he was the perfect vessel - they'd never told him exactly what that meant, just that he should have some faith - faith in a man, no, in an angel he'd met just once before, 35 years in the past and wearing his father. Not the greatest of introductions, even he would admit. That was it though, not a peep from him since, just nebulous threats from his lackeys, and the occasional bout of cancer from Zachariah. At first he'd wondered why Michael never showed, why he never heard from him again, but, it was starting to make sense now, as he walked toward the tree.

It was starting to make sense why he was born first, why he'd cared for his brother and followed John's orders and stayed true to his Father's plan. It made even more sense that Sam had rebelled, that he'd started to run, and then been kicked out, expelled by force from the family.

His fingertips brushed the bark lightly, the texture familiar, as though he knew each grain of wood contained inside, each split in the branches, each knot in the trunk. He knew all the leaves that hung from the tree, and as he flattened his palm against the rough, varied surface, he could feel the near electrical hum and the heat that came from within. It was obvious now what was kept there, what he would find in a moment. It called to him, and he yearned for it - he hadn't even known it was missing. How could he not have seen this gaping hole inside him? For years he'd tried to fill it with sex, and drugs, and the thrill of a hunt, but nothing had ever sated the feeling of loss and worthlessness - the incessant lack that plagued his life. Now he knew, though, he knew why, he knew how, and he knew how to fix it. He would fill that void, with fire, and light, and raw, untapped power.

Both hands now, he placed on the firm trunk of the oak tree, and whispered a few words in Enochian. They'd come to him, over the past weeks, flitting through his dreams as words on billboards, and passing conversations. He'd see them on the corners of menus, etched in the blade of his knife, and scrawled across his motel headboards. They'd slip into the songs on the radio, the daytime soaps on the TV, and even in the previews of the movies that they'd watched. No one else noticed, or understood them, but he knew, he knew what they meant and now they slipped from his lips near unbidden, flowing like he'd never forgotten the language, like he'd never forsaken his past.

And then, it happened. Blinding light came forth from the tree, filling his vision completely, searing through his body with the heat of a thousand suns, coalescing at the center of his being till he himself shone bright like a star. And he knew that at last, he'd filled up that void - consumed the darkness with a heavenly fire.

The tree was now a living statue to remember the occasion, no longer special in any other way, and so he took a step back, and another, till he stood on flat ground. And he stretched. He stretched out his legs and his arms and he reached toward the heavens feeling all six of his wings stretching up with him also, finally free to exist.

It all made sense to him now, all the flukes and the clues that'd been adding up through the years. It wasn't like they said, he wasn't just the vessel, just the weapon, just the great Michaelsword. Far from it, in fact, Dean Winchester found that he was the archangel Michael.


End file.
